Danielle Hope
Jackal at the door
All night long there has been
a jackal at the door, watching for
my tread, howling, wolf constant,
its fur faking fox then pheasant,
crouching among autumn mulch.
Scent of dustbins.
I rise, look in the mirror.
Even the aspidistra is dying. Air
that no longer gives good blood
pumps in veins. Bone bare Gomorrah
weather. Streets sing of cancelled
buses, dangerous trains. Lights vanish
over the city. Someone has poured
water on the burning bush.
Page(s) 59
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